


tell me all the ways

by tinsnip



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absolute fluff, Bickering, Couple, M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), and sometimes one just has to do it anyway, sometimes it's hard to put in words, sometimes one might not like the words one has to use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 12:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19084783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: Crowley was out in the garden.Aziraphale was in his study, most definitely not looking out the window.Really.Really.One little speck of sentiment: was it so much to ask?





	tell me all the ways

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written while listening and re-listening to Meghan Trainor's "All The Ways", which, I mean, if you like schmoopy business, that's some good schmoopy business.

_if you love me, love me, love me like you say_  
_then, darling, tell me all the ways, tell me all the ways_

 

Crowley was out in the garden.

Aziraphale was in his study, most definitely not looking out the window.

Really. _Really._ One little _speck_ of sentiment: was it so much to ask?

 

That morning the sun had shone in, lighting the kitchen, and Aziraphale had smiled and bustled about, apron done up snugly. Orange juice had sounded appealing, as had eggs and bacon and perhaps a bit of toast, and the only miracle required had been a little elbow grease. Appetizing smells had wafted through the cottage, and soon enough he’d heard a “mrrmf,” and turned to see Crowley, hair mussed and pyjama-clad, blinking blearily at him.

“Breakfast?”

“Obviously.”

“Mnnnn.”

“I’m assuming you’d like some?”

Crowley had eyed him as he’d slid into a chair, and Aziraphale had nodded and turned back to the stovetop.1 He’d spatulated bacon and eggs festively on to a plate, and placed them in front of Crowley, who’d pulled a face.

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale had said, happily.

“Far too early for that,” and Crowley had speared one of the eggs, letting the yolk dribble out pathetically. He’d rubbed his toast over it and taken an enormous bite, and closed his eyes, chewing.

Aziraphale hadn’t bothered rolling his eyes. Instead, he’d plated himself another smiling face, seated himself, and snagged two pieces of toast from the plate in the middle of the table. Now, to business...

“What about tea?”

Aziraphale had looked up at Crowley, frowning. “You’ve got legs.”

“Oh, really,” and Crowley had rolled his eyes and gestured in a grandiose manner2, inducing the teapot to drift through the air, trailing teacups in its wake.

Arizaphale had tutted.

“Be quiet or I won’t pour you any.”

“Two sugars.”

“I _know.”_

Ten minutes later, Crowley’d managed a smile that didn’t look like a rictus, and Aziraphale had been happily considering whether another egg might hit the spot. He’d decided against it, and had begun to tidy up, humming to himself. Crowley had leaned back in his chair, legs akimbo under the table, and closed his eyes, to all appearances going back to sleep. Fair enough, Aziraphale had thought; that left him lots of morning to read, to have some time to himself, and he’d turned, untying his apron, and had caught Crowley smiling at him.

Quite the smile, too. Both corners of the mouth up. A real, proper, _affectionate_ smile, not just a sardonic tilt. It had caught him quite by surprise.

He’d smiled back, and Crowley had blinked and tucked the smile away, embarrassed.

“Oh, come now,” Aziraphale had said. “There’s nothing wrong with smiling.”

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“Of course you weren’t. Only you did look a bit smitten.”

Crowley had rolled his eyes. “Smitten?” he’d said, pushing the word around in his mouth as if it tasted strange.

“Quite smitten.” What fun. He’d pulled his apron over his head and hung it on the little hook next to the fridge, and had sat next to Crowley, taking his hand, which had apparently been beyond the pale: Crowley had almost wriggled in his chair, readjusting his posture, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I’m not _smitten,_ angel. I wouldn’t say _smitten._ ”

“Oh?” He’d looked at Crowley’s hand in his, looked back up. “And what would you say?”

Suddenly a change in Crowley’s posture, a tilt of his head; there was the sideways smile. “I’d say I lust after you, angel. I covet you. I _idolize_ you. But... smitten? I mean, honestly.” And Crowley had shrugged, as if that had been that.

For some reason, this morning, that hadn’t been enough.

“And?”

“And... and what?” Crowley had looked a bit desperate.

Aziraphale’s mouth had tasted like tea and toast. “And you love me.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley had said, sounding put-upon, and it had definitely been the wrong thing to say.

“What do you mean, ‘oh no’?”

“Angel, don’t make me...” Crowley had pulled his hand out of Aziraphale’s, pushed his chair back, and stood up like a folding umbrella.

Aziraphale had stayed seated, folding his arms, looking up. “Make you what?”

Crowley had shaken his head, exasperated. “You know how I feel about you.”

Stubbornness had felt appropriate. “Perhaps I don’t.”

“You _do.”_

“Perhaps I want to hear it.” He’d set his mouth and stared at Crowley, and Crowley had squirmed.

“Really? _Really?_ You’re going to make me say it?”

Oh. _Well,_ then.

“Of course I should know better than to think I can _make_ you do anything.”

“Wait - angel, I didn’t mean—”

He’d stood up, and wiped angrily at a few leftover crumbs on the table. “I should hate to inconvenience you in any way.”

“A _zi_ raphale—”

He could do without having his name whined at him, too. “I’m sure you have a great deal to do this morning. I most definitely have plans.” And he’d stalked into this study and slammed the door behind him and immediately regretted it, but was he going to apologize to the greedy, self-centered demon taking up space in the kitchen? He most definitely was _not._

He’d sat in his armchair with emphasis, groped for his reading glasses, and very nearly poked himself in the eye with them, which hadn’t helped his mood.

He’d heard Crowley moving about in the kitchen, and then the sound of the bedroom door closing, and a few minutes later it had opened again and then the door of the cottage had slammed.

Well. Fine, then. He hadn’t wanted Crowley to come and try to apologize, anyway.

 

Now, some time later, Aziraphale had managed to lose himself in his book. He was wingtip-deep in the story, head full of bravery and charity and good deeds done, when he heard the rap at the window.

He looked up.

Nothing there. Crowley wasn’t anywhere to be seen, not that he cared, particularly. Perhaps he’d imagined it.

Back to the book for half a page, and then another rap. This time he looked up fast enough to see the rock bounce off, land on the sill, and roll off the edge.

He heard Crowley curse.

Oh, _really._

He was just about to open the window and tell Crowley to go play games elsewhere when he saw a dirty hand slide just barely into view, very carefully placing something on the windowsill and putting the rock on top. The something fluttered a bit in the breeze.

It was a folded square of paper.

Ah. So Crowley thought he could make nice by tempting Aziraphale’s curiosity, did he? Well, he had another think coming. The very idea.

He frowned down at his book determinedly, settling himself further back into his chair, and started reading again. Now, where had he been... ah, yes...

“Oh, come _on,_ angel,” a demonic voice hissed from outside his window. “ _Read_ it.”

His frown deepened. He pushed his glasses up on to the top of his head, set his book aside, and settled his hands on his thighs, waiting.

A few more seconds of silence, and then an irritated “ _Fine_ , then,” and he saw Crowley stalk away from his hiding place beside the window, aiming back towards the garden and, no doubt, some soothing torment.3

Hmph. Well, then. Now he could get back to his book.

Except that he couldn’t. Curiosity itched at him.

The problem with living with a demon was that the demon could hit all his weak spots without even trying. It was probably built in.

He sighed and stood, and walked to the window, bending to tug it up in its frame. It slid up slowly about two inches, protesting. He was just able to sneak a hand underneath to pull the note through, and then had to force the window back down again with a grunt of effort.

The note had smudges of dirt all over it.

He unfolded it.

It was in Crowley’s scratchy hand, untameable even by expensive imported gel-inked midnight black pens:

_ The reasons I love you _

_You are the one I can talk to about anything._  
_You make me breakfast. And tea. And you make the bed._  
_You’re funny. No one is as funny as you are._  
_You can be a real bastard._  
_You are the better half of me. And not because of any Good and Evil business._  
_You make a very silly face when I annoy you._  
_You don’t take any crap from me. Or from anyone._  
_You’re always very warm._  
_You understand me. More than I like._  
_You’re always there. And always have been._

_I do love you. Very much._

_All right?_

He stared down at the note.

It really was very grubby. His fingertips were black just from holding it.

He folded it up, very carefully, and tucked it into his breast pocket, and rested his hand there for a moment, and then he smiled to himself and got up to see what could be gotten together for lunch.

 

* * *

  

1 This interaction is not quite as rude as it appears. Aziraphale is a morning person. Crowley is not. Although there were some bruised feelings for the first little while, Crowley soon figured out that he couldn’t trust his tongue until he’d had a cup of something caffeinated, and Aziraphale soon figured out that anything said before 10 A.M. was best ignored. It no doubt helps that Crowley makes the dinners.

2 This is a tautology.

3 Crowley’d thought he’d enjoyed having plants when he’d lived in the city. He now realized what being the lord and master of a plot of land really meant. His morning diatribes were the stuff of chlorophyllic legend. His begonias burgeoned. His radishes rooted deep. His cauliflowers gleamed. His garden lived in fear. That said, even the lowliest carrot had it better than being a weed in Crowley’s garden. When Crowley weeded, the plants crowded together in terror and tried to ignore the silent screams.


End file.
